Stop, Drop and Roll
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: Sherlock notices how good John looks in a suit, and he makes it his mission to destroy all of John's jumpers. But how will he get John to take off his suit without him suspecting? With a little help from a cigarette lighter, anything's possible.
1. Chapter 1

**Written for a prompt from Sherlock BBC Kink Meme:**

**'Everyone notices how good John looks in a suit. So they make it their mission to destroy all his jumpers and replacing them with suit coats and button downs. And I mean everyone: Mrs. Hudson, Sally, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, and especially Sherlock. Except one time they do something while he's still wearing the jumper, and he has to strip it off to avoid injury. After that, it's their new mission to get John to strip whenever possible. Especially Sherlock's.'**

**This was so much fun to write, and I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing this!**

**Review at the end, please, they really make my writing worthwhile!**

* * *

><p><strong>First You Shred my Jumpers, Now You Set Fire to My Suit?<strong>

**by**

**Blackcurrant Bonbons**

John opened the door to 221b, loosening his tie as he closed the door behind him, as it had began to feel uncomfortably like a noose during his meeting with Mycroft, which had been extremely uncomfortable in general. It was not that John disliked Mycroft; he was a pleasant man as far as he could discern – even if that was all pretence.

But the man was just plain _creepy_. His smile never failed to send an involuntary shudder down John's spine, and he knew Mycroft would be a formidable enemy if John happened to get on his bad side, which he was strenuously avoiding.

This meeting had been different though. John hadn't quite decided what it was yet, but it had nagged his conscious all the way home. And although he was no Sherlock, he had been able to make some small observations.

As he was still wary of Mycroft extreme protectiveness of Sherlock, he had made an effort to at least offer a facade of respectability by wearing a suit.

He despised suits, and the one that had been dragged out for the occasion he had found shoved carelessly into the back of the wardrobe and had not been graced by sunlight for at least 5 years, and had been worn even longer ago than that. John always preferred jumpers.

But Mycroft had been giving him a more appraising look-over than usual and John wondered if he had overdone it. But his gaze lingered for too long, and the predatory glint John glimpsed in his cold eyes had made the doctor squirm. If he hadn't known any better, John would have sworn Mycroft was checking him out. The mere thought made John want to dash to the nearest bin and spill his guts out.

And as he had left the office John swore he heard Mycroft mutter 'I see what Sherlock meant.' That had only caused John more disturbances and he was left even more confused than before.

As he plonked up the stairs to the flat, he was greeted by the sight of Mrs Hudson closing the door behind her, and John just caught the echoes of Sherlock's shout.

"Oh hello dear. I'd watch out with Sherlock, he's in an awful mood today. No cases, you see."

"I think I can handle him Mrs Hudson. Thanks for the warning anyway."

He froze as Mrs Hudson gave him an appraising up and down look.

"You look lovely in that suit dear; you should wear it more often. It suits you. It'd be a change from those baggy jumpers."

John bristled slightly at the insult to his jumpers.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson."

Before she could say anymore, he gently slipped past her and entered into 221b; bracing himself for the volley of insults and barbs that Sherlock would no likely pass his way.

Silence.

Sherlock stood frozen in the middle of the room, violin tucked under his chin, but the bow lay dangling from his limp arm. John wasn't sure if his mouth was open in mid-rant or shock. He quickly looked down on his person, checking for anything shocking. He found nothing. When he looked back up again, Sherlock's mouth was closed and he had resumed playing position.

"Hello to you to Sherlock." He commented jokingly, he no longer expected any conventional greeting from the sociopathic detective.

Walking off to the cluttered and frankly dangerous kitchen, he put the kettle on to boil, before heading to his bedroom to change out of this god damn suit. However, he froze on the stairs when he heard the familiar _click _of a phone camera. He twisted around to the sight of Sherlock discretely slipping his phone into his jeans pocket, and John swore a ghost smile graced his lips, if only for a second.

John's mouth fell open in shock. "Sherlock, did you just take a picture of me?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous John. Whatever led you to such a fanatical conclusion?"

John closed his mouth and merely sighed. He had learned to accept his flatmate's idiosyncrasies. But he would most definitely delete that picture whenever he got the chance.

But despite his solemn promise, John found himself wearing the same hated suit only a few days later. He had just returned to Baker Street from a particularly monotonous meeting at the clinic. Inspectors and high up officials had been visiting and Sarah had stressed to him that it was important to look smart. John had unwillingly worn the suit. He had not bothered to change on his return, but merely settled down on the sofa with a nice cup of uncontaminated tea, and was just about to switch on the telly when a familiar knock came from the door. Quickly downing the last dregs of his tea, John stood up to open it. Sherlock was absorbed in an experiment at the long suffering kitchen table, and any looks or comments directed in his direction would have been ignored or deflected.

Opening the door, John was greeted with the familiar sight of Mrs Hudson, who was laden down with two lumpy plastic bags.

"Ah Mrs Hudson! You washed the jumpers! Thank you!"

Sherlock had broken their washing machine again during an 'experiment', and he had been forced to ask Mrs Hudson to do their washing. Surprisingly, there had not been a whisper of 'I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper.'

"Ah, that's the thing dear, you see, my washing machine had a slight malfunction. The jumpers shrunk. I'm very sorry." She didn't look dreadfully sorry though, John thought. He felt annoyed, and more than a little pissed off. But what was he supposed to do, punch her?

Instead, he sighed, and accepted the bags from her. He only risked a glimpse at the contents, and the mere sight made him want to cry. Nearly a quarter of his jumper collection – which he had been collecting his whole life – now looked more suited to Barbie dolls.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson." He didn't feel very thankful, quite the opposite, but his mother's voice filled his head. 'Respect your elders.' God, wouldn't she ever leave him alone?

Mrs Hudson practically scampered off, closing the door quickly behind her.

John dumped the bags unceremoniously on the floor, and stomped over to the kitchen to dispose of the empty mug. However, the sight he encountered on entering made him freeze with rage, and he went very, very still.

"Sherlock," he whispered through clenched teeth. The mug in his hand dropped to the ground, shattering everywhere. Much to his incensed fury, Sherlock turned round nonchalantly, grinning.

"What have you done to my jumpers?" John's voice quavered with rage.

"Oh, them." Sherlock said unsurprised, and turned back around. "That's an experiment."

"An experiment." John shook. "You cut up my jumpers and drenched them in human blood for an experiment? What experiment, exactly?"

Sherlock started to explain, but John waved his hand, silencing him. Sherlock did not seem the least perturbed by his mood. John had had enough. "You can clean up the bloody mug!"

Stalking off to his room, John hoped he had at least one decent jumper left for Sherlock's sake, or he was going to shot the insufferable man.

He emerged from his room sometime later, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He didn't want to risk bringing any of his few remaining jumpers into Sherlock's presence, not that he intended to talk to the man for the next few days. Sherlock would be on the receiving end of his best silent treatment.

Much to his disappoint, a smug looking Mycroft lounged in an armchair. John froze in shock when he realized he and Sherlock were actually having a somewhat amiable conversation when he entered, and John was sure for a moment that he had gone into a fury induced hallucination.

The conversation cut to a short once they realised John's entrance.

"Ah, good evening John. If you wouldn't mind, could you bring me your entire jumper collection immediately?" Mycroft looked at him expectantly.

Well, that certainly wasn't the greeting he'd been expecting.

"Why, exactly?"

"I have reason to believe they have been bugged, and not by myself."

"That's ridiculous..." John stopped mid-sentence as both Holmes brothers sent him an intense glare.

"Oh, okay..." John couldn't help but feel nervous for his jumpers, considering that half of his collection had been wiped off the face of existence in a day.

So it was with more than a little apprehension five minutes later that John handed a plastic bag bursting with his remaining jumpers over to 'Anthea'.

As 'Anthea' sauntered out of the flat to do god knows what with his jumpers, John sat down nervously, where Mycroft instantly engaged him in amiable but pointless conversation, whilst John prepared himself for the worst.

He practically jumped out of his seat when 'Anthea' returned a few minutes later with the plastic bag. John snatched the bag from her hand, and on looking in at its contents, it was all he could do not to fall to the floor and weep like a loved one had died. They'd been completely shredded. Then he suddenly became very angry. Whilst he could not hurt Mrs Hudson, he would not hesitate to now punch Mycroft's hawk like nose into next week, loath as he would to make an enemy of the man.

Mycroft, as if reading his thoughts, stood up very quickly, and paid his adieus, avoiding shaking John's hand as he usually would, who still stood in the middle of the room clutching the plastic bag very tightly.

It was unsurprising to say that John spent the rest of the night in a very bad mood, lurking in his room, tenderly stroking the little remaining strips of his beloved oatmeal, cable knit jumper.

After the destruction of his jumpers, John found himself reluctantly wearing the suit more and more often to work, not out of choice but necessity.

He had returned to the flat after a particularly trying day at the clinic a few days after the jumper shredding incident to find Sherlock standing by the kitchen table flicking a cigarette lighter, tapered fingers holding the device expertly.

"Sherlock, you better not have..." John put on his best stern '_smoking is bad for you' _doctor expression.

"No John, it's an experiment."

"It'd better be."

Sherlock snorted at John's attempt at a semi-threat.

John groaned as he looked down at the forest that was their kitchen sink. Suddenly, his back began to feel very hot.

Sherlock went very quiet.  
>"Um, John, are you familiar with Stop, drop and roll?"<p>

John twisted around with a sinking certainty of what he was going to see.

He shrieked loudly. "Shit, Sherlock! You've set me on fire!"

He resisted the urge to jump up and down screaming.

"It was an accident, I can assure you."

But John wasn't listening as he frantically darted around the flat, looking for a clear space. The heat was becoming more incessant.

Not giving a damn what he crushed anymore, John dropped to floor and began to roll around like a writhing madman. Once he felt sure the flames were extinguished, he jumped up, and ripped of the bloody suit jacket and shirt, and began to stomp on them. He wasn't sad to see that they were beyond repair.

John froze mid stomp as Sherlock coughed. He looked up to find the detective staring at him intently, with an animalistic fire burning in his eyes. John struggled to find a word to describe it, and _desire _kept popping up.

He blushed a furious beetroot, and he could feel the lava-esque heat enveloping his cheeks.

He darted off to his room, covering his chest in a meek attempt at modesty.

But John glimpsed the scheming look in Sherlock's eyes, the one he always had when he was plotting to get something he wanted. John had seen it many a time.

And John knew Sherlock _always_ got what he wanted.

* * *

><p><strong>Review!<strong>


	2. The Last Jumper

**Hi! Thank you for all your wonderful reviews on the last chapter, so glad everyone enjoyed it! Originally, I wasn't going to write a sequel, but it was my friend CrypticNymph's birthday yesterday and this is my birthday present to her! So I hope you like it Bethan! (Check out her stories, she's an amazing writer, I highly recommend Winter in my Heart for any slash and detective fans!) This is definitely the last chapter! Set 3 months after the events of Stop, Drop and Roll.**

**Warnings: T rated slash, swearing, use of F word.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the writing and make no profits.**

**Congrats to Sherlock for the BAFTA tonight!**

* * *

><p><em>3 Months Later<em>

John straightened up, wiping a slimy, polished covered hand across his sweaty brow, a small sigh of immense satisfaction escaping his lips. His reflection beamed back at him from all corners of the now sparkling 221b, and he admired his handiwork. He couldn't help but give a little- what he thought to be suave (but slightly ridiculous, if cute) – grin back at his reflection, winking. Needless to say John had always been a fan of James Bond. Sadly this effect was ruined by the fact that he was wearing a too tight flowery apron – courtesy of Mrs Hudson.

When John got bored, he cleaned. Whether it was a legacy of his army days or constantly cleaning up after a drunken Harry in his teenage years (in the end the shoes and vomit just all jumbled into one) John knew not. But a sense of order and cleanliness were imperative when living with Sherlock, or one could mistakenly assume they had strolled into their local landfill.

But what with the hectic lifestyle John seemed to have adapted of late – what with balancing cases with Sherlock and a full time job – the flat had slowly crumbled into a state of complete and utter chaos. So for once, John was happy that Sherlock did not require his particular 'assistance' – or as Sherlock sometimes said in a foul mood, 'idiocy' – on the case he had embarked on that weekend. John had resigned himself to the fact that the flat would soon fall into the horrific hiatus it had been soon after Sherlock's return, and the high probability of said man's foul tantrums caused by John having disrupted an 'important experiment' of his. He was merely content with the state of blissful cleanliness he stood in.

A faintly chemical smell of bleach wafted from his old t shirt and John wrinkled his nose in disgust. Ever since the 'jumper destruction' incident three months ago, his supply of clothes had rapidly decreased, and due to lack of sufficient income, John had reluctantly allowed Mycroft to buy his clothes for him – of course with input from Sherlock – as compensation for his part in their destruction. Of course jumpers were out of the question, and if John didn't know any better, the t shirts and suits seemed on the borderline of uncomfortably tight. But John didn't complain.

With one last content glance over the flat, John removed the apron, dumped it on the sofa, and bounded up to the shower.

* * *

><p>John stood sopping wet in his room, towel around waist, emitting the wonderful scent of an elusive and expensive aftershave, which no doubt Sherlock had had a hand in, he suspected. Slamming the wardrobe door in frustration, he plopped down on the bed. Today was Saturday, and now he wanted nothing more than a comfy pair of jogging bottoms and one of his beloved comfy jumpers. His wardrobe was filled with new, flashy suits, tight jeans and designer t shirts.<p>

He looked over at the big black bag in the corner of his room, which was filled with ratty, holey clothes – some of which he swore he had owned since his university days. Sighing heavily, he stood up, and lumbered over to the bag, carefully untying the elaborate knot and delved inside. Soon enough he pulled out a pair of gray, faded jogging bottoms which had seen better days, both knees with holes. He pulled them on with relish. Dipping his hand again, he pulled out a stretched, baggy t shirt. He pulled it out. Suddenly, he froze. Surely, it couldn't be!

Rubbing the all too familiar fabric between his fingers for a few contemplative seconds, a large grin broke across his face, and he had to resist the urge to jump up and down in the air with joy. Pulling the jumper out the bag, he buried his face into it, refraining hysterical giggles.

So there was one jumper that Sherlock hadn't found.

The mere thought of the man's name made John curl protectively around his new found jumper. It had never been one of his favourites; his gran had given it to him two years before he had left for Afghanistan. She had knitted it herself – despite her dementia, God bless her soul, and was a sloppy, itchy mess of multicoloured wool. In fact, it had been one of his least favourite, but he had smiled bravely and put up with it.

He silently apologised to the jumper for any past insults as he stroked it, digging his fingers into the wool.

Curling up onto his bed, he slept like a baby, jumper curled into a ball, held tightly in his arms.

* * *

><p>John was a light sleeper. It was annoying fact when in the army, when many of the soldiers slept like bears, and the air was almost permeated with the fire of machine guns and bombs. But it was fortunate that night.<p>

It was the clicking noise that awoke him. Waking up with a start, John startled up and leant forward, only to come face to with face with familiar green eyes and the flickering flame of what looked like a cigarette lighter. Letting out a rather lady like shriek, John's hand shot out to the lamp.

John let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief when he realise it was just Sherlock, but then was similarly freaked by two questions – Why was Sherlock in his room, and why the hell was he holding a cigarette lighter?

"Shit Sherlock! What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?" John backed up into the bed frame, clutching his last jumper, of which Sherlock sent an unconcealed look of loathing.

Sherlock shrugged. John spluttered at his flatmate's noncommittal answer. "-Anyway- Why are you holding a cigarette lighter!"

Much to John's utter shock, Sherlock tapered hand shot out and grabbed the jumper out of John's shocked, complacent hands and darted out the room, slamming the door behind him. It took John several vital seconds to process this information, and then he was out of bed, bursting out the door in pursuit of Sherlock.

Taking all the steps in one leap, John cannoned into Sherlock, who held his beloved jumper in the air, on the brink of setting it a light. Fortunately, John managed to knock the lighter out of Sherlock hand, and it flew half way across the room, only stopping when it slammed into the wall, falling to the floor. Sherlock bound over in vain to reach it, but only succeed in reaching half way.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "If you burn that, I'm going to kill you!" He jumped over the coffee table, eyes locked on the rainbow wool of his jumper.

Sherlock grunted with shock as John grabbed him around the middle in an attempt to knock the taller man over. When that failed, he jumped up and down, hand outstretched. Sherlock held the jumper aloft, a small smug grin spread across his face as he watched a seemingly helpless John. It was times like this when Sherlock's height -and John's lack of it- were an advantage. Or a disadvantage in John's case.

Suddenly, a very cunning idea entered John's thoughts and he suppressed a wicked grin. Feigning defeat, he let out a sigh, putting in as much resignation and tiredness as his meagre acting skills could afford. "Fine. Burn it. I hated that one anyway."

Sherlock's face broke out it a triumphant grin, and despite himself, John's heart did a little leap.

Walking off as if in the direction of his bedroom, John sneakily peeped around his shoulder, and saw Sherlock bending over to pick up the lighter off the floor.

Then with a large battle cry he leaped over the coffee table and collided into the Sherlock, sending him flying into the sofa, John close behind. The detective let out a great grunt of surprise and pain as he collapsed onto the sofa, and John winced as he landed on top of the man. John may be small, but he made up for it with muscle.

"John! What are you doing?" Sherlock squeaked. Theirs was an awkward position, Sherlock had by some miracle landed on his back, but his gangly legs dangled off the edge, and John lay onto him, noses almost touching. John insides wobbled and as Sherlock's panting breath tickled his face, he completely melted into the man, jumper forgotten. Sherlock did what John didn't dare. He elevated his head slightly and captured John's lips with his, pulling him into a warm, sloppy, undignified kiss. John felt a warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach. He blanched inwardly. Why did the movies and crappy romance novels have to cliché and spoil any remotely romantic phrases? He closed his eyes, allowing the warm fuzziness to envelop him.

But the warmth was getting hotter. At first John took it in his stride, but when it started to turn to a blistering heat, he pulled his mouth back. Sherlock looked high, eyelids half closed, a dream expression on his angelic face. It was all John could do not to bend down and kiss him again. He looked down to investigate the mysterious heat.

And then let out another high pitch scream. Both men bolted up.

"SHIT Sherlock! You've set the fucking jumper on fire!"


End file.
